Man 1: Okay, go. Code please?Man 2: Oh come on, John, must be bother with this?Man 1: We’ve got protocol.Man 2: All right. Code is Six-Two-Seven-Zed-Hotel-Lamba.Man 1: It checks out. Let’s begin.Man 2: We’re all in place. We’re ready when you are. You’re sure that you can provide fire support?Man 1: Of course we can. We’re God’s country, after all.Man 2: Yes, that’s worked out well for you so far. How did project Dead Air go again?Man 1: That’s classified.Man 2: Of course it is. But enough. We get the package, you help us out. This grudge match from that bitch has gone on long enough. She’s going to get the whole place torn inside out.Man 1: More than it is, you mean?Man 2: Organized chaos is how we like it.Man 1: Understood. You’re not the only one who likes it like that, you know.Man 2: Let me know when you’ve got more details. We strike in three days. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have other business to attend to. It’s been a pleasure, John. See you soon.
click

What's the frequency, Kenneth?

Man: You know you can’t hide them forever.Woman: I have no intentions on hiding them forever, Chang. I merely want to ensure my point is made.Man: What point is that, exactly?Woman: That if necessary, I can take the most powerful countries in the world and make them my bitch.Man: You think the Americans will stand for this? The PM has allies in very high places.Woman: They should’ve thought of that earlier, then. They keep trying to place themselves in my affairs. I do not enjoy those who place themselves in my affairs. I would much rather invite them in then shoot them in the middle of tea.Man: You’re heartless.Woman: War is hell, Chang. War is hell.Man: This isn’t war. Yet.Woman: What are they doing to do? Crack down on piracy? Send a task force? Perhaps involve the UN? No one cares, Chang. They all have their own problems.Man: Maybe they could do a letter writing campaign.Woman: I’ll be sure to at least glance at them before using them for firewood.Man: You’re starting to screw with everyone else, Vlad. Your keeping them means all of us are at risk. They’ve stayed away from here for a long time, but they’ve never had a reason to try and wipe us off the map. Not until now.Woman: Then they should not have started seizing my freight and executing my men. My men, Chang. They were MY. MEN.Man: You knew it was only a matter of time. We all did. Before long someone’s going to poke that sleeping bear that is the rest of the world. You’ve got a hell of a sharp stick right now.Woman: I’m not poking. I’m stabbing it right through them and twisting it to make sure they understand.Man: They’re going to fight fire with fire soon, you know. Everyone has a price, and they have deep pockets. I’m giving you fair warning right now, Vladislava. If you don’t return those children, you’ll find more than just two-bit thugs after you. I’ve heard…bad things. You know who lives in Roanapur that they can find. I’m staying out of it, of course, homeland be damned. I know better than to get involved in this.Woman: They can send armies after me. Until they learn, I won’t be sending them back.Man: Godspeed to you, then. Call me when it’s over.Woman: God’s dead, Chang. He died back in Afghanistan.click

They just deflect shrapnel with their boobs

The next adventure of the Islanders was fairly straightforward, as far as jobs go. Vladislava needed them to get in, grab some cargo, and get out. This cargo was, of course, the Chinese girls from a recent assignment.

Highlights include Liam diving John Woo style across the battlefield, Cieran cutting two guards into small, bite-size chunks before cleaving someone else in half, Sam bluffing his way into the compound, Inessa having bullet- and explosionproof boobs, and Quentin grappling across the compound to snipe with a shotgun.

Some minor hiccups and injures were had, but the group made their getaway before the pickup chopper arrived. After making the drop off, Liam asked again who they were, and Vladislava humored him by tossing him a newspaper with a single headline in Chinese:

What's better than a girl in a box?

Two girls in a box.

The Islanders, after having a brief run in with the British Mafia (“By jove!) and the Church of Violence (”Get this shit off my lawn!"), managed to pick up a new member – a good old boy who turned out to be something of a hacker and a good shot with beanbags.

The call from the Russians was that they had a box to deliver – a big box. After setting course, and some burning curiosity to open up the box, the drop was made to three Japanese business men who promptly died from sniper fire.

A brief scuffle ensued, which included major casualties on the enemy side and some interrogation of a deaf man, and the box was opened to reveal two young Chinese girls, sound asleep.

Then they decided that returning to the dock to interrogate the box owners was a good idea. Sam’s attempts at faking sign language were quickly stifled.

Three attack choppers flew in pursuit, slamming the Cove with missile after missile until an incredibly daring, utterly stupid, and pretty awesome maneuver by the knife-crazy half of the Irish Wonder Twins put them out of business – long enough for the Russian back up to arrive anyway.

Giving the Islanders money and taking the children, the Russians departed and let the Islanders settle their own problems. A visit to the bar closed out the day.

Don't hesitate. Don't back down. Don't look behind.

Girls, guns, and gangs – all the prime ingredients to a small town in Thailand called Roanapur, a far more wretched hive of scum and villainy than Mos Eisley can ever hope to achieve.

It’s here that some major players in the dirty business of…well, everything, call home.

The police exist, but know enough to not go after the big shots and crime gangs. They let them go about their business, so long as they don’t upset the locals too much, and in return they get to live another day.

Gun fights are oddly uncommon until you realize that everyone, their mother, and their mother’s mother are packing enough combined firepower to take down several small armies.

Morals are at a continuous low, and at the end of the day, no one’s part of the good guys. The nice ones get shot, and the dead can’t really be nice anymore.

God and love are all sold out. The only thing you’ve got left to rely on is money and guns. With those two things, you’re pretty much set for life. Anything else is a bunch of sentimental bullshit.

It’s here in this town that our stories start. The Obsidian Cove, one of the rare unaffiliated ships that belongs to the courier company The Islanders, is on a tentative peace with more-or-less every group. Not because of their total badassery quotient, which is fairly high, but more that when they are paid to get shit done, they get shit done, even if that means having to kill anyone and everyone in their way to do so.